


Habit

by sourirs (sourirpourmoi)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sterek, M/M, Self Harm, and personal, but i just, but i'll probably write a lot more, more than likley, pre slash, this is very painful, trigger warning, wanted to get the emotions right first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourirpourmoi/pseuds/sourirs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't help himself. It's not silly, it's just. It's just habit.<br/>It's habit to wear long sleeves in a California summer. Habit to spend months getting changed in the cubicles for lacrosse.<br/>Habit to pick up the blade and twirl it in his fingers.<br/>Habit to let the blood stream for a few seconds before cleaning it.</p><p>Feeling this way has become a disgusting habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Futile

**Author's Note:**

> This is an attempt to express my emotions.

_\- Futile_

The words of Stiles' P.S.H.E class earlier in the day sit heavily on his chest.

_Telling someone is the first step._

They had just started a new module. Teenage relations his teacher had called it. Things like self harm, sex, under-age drinking.

Stiles had blanched and looked down the entire hour.

He fidgets in his chair and instinctively pulls the sleeves of his t-shirt over his hands. 

Stiles in the privacy of his room.

Alone.

Still, he can't help himself. It's not silly, it's just. It's just habit.

It's habit to wear long sleeves in a California summer. Habit to spend months getting changed in the cubicles for lacrosse.

Habit to pick up the blade and twirl it in his fingers.

Habit to let the blood stream for a few seconds before cleaning it.

Feeling this way has become a disgusting habit.

Stiles shuffles hs phone out of his pocket and stares at the blank screen. Nothing.

No texts. No calls.

No facebook, twitter, skype, emails.

Nothing waits for him. Nothing wants him.

Nothing ever cares.

His fingers hover over Scott's number, emotions battling inside of him.

With a cry he throws his phone on his bed and moves quickly to his dresser.

Habit, thumbing the blade slightly.

At school, Stiles is hilarious. He makes the jokes, everybody laughs. At school, Stiles is dependable, Scott, Lydia, Danny, hell, even Derek can vouch for that.

At school, Stiles is happy. Because he isn't alone. Scott waits for him at the end of class, a lop sided grin on his face. Danny pulls out his chair at lunch and nicks his apple. Even Lydia flicked her hair in his face once.

But here in the confines of his room, every fucking day from 5pm to 7am, theres nothing to smile for. Nobody calls, nobody texts.

Nobody cares.

And he can't help pushing the wonky blade into the pale of his skin, just as much as he can't help the fat ugly tears that fall, unbidden, from his eyes.

Stiles is a mess of emotions, he knows this because he isn't stupid. He isn't naive, he knows something is wrong somewhere but he can never concentrate. Because there's guilt, so much fucking guilt for what he's put his father through, for what happened to Scott. For his mothers death.

Stiles is scared. He feels unappreciated, he tries so hard, with everyone and they just, nothing ever is enough-

Jealous. Ashamed. Unwanted.

Lonely.

Thats why, this, the cutting, that's why it's the only thing. 

There's only one thing to focus on. Pain. And pain is transient, it comes like a shock but it always creeps away. It slinks back to it's depths taking with it the roaring emotions. And so Stiles is grateful he can still feel the pain. He can still feel something.

It leaves him in a daze. Clean.

Worthy.

He stares at the trickle of blood making its way slowly down the pale scares on his blemished arm.

Disgust curls deep and angrily inside him. He grimaces, hating, hating so much.

He pushes the blade in deeper with fumbling fingers and smiles through the pain.


	2. Attempts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles can't explain what it is that makes his insides pang. Like he can't breathe.
> 
> It's like he misses him, his father, but he's sat right in front of him. He's less than two feet away.
> 
> But Stiles feels so alone.

"Hey, dad?" Stiles speaks through the silence. He's drained, his limbs feel heavy and for the first time he felt like completely flunking from school today. He didn't, of course, he went. And he resented every minute.

His dad grunts at him, acknowledging his questions. Not looking at him.

Stiles narrows his eyes at his father's sight, his files surrounding him, a forkful of lasagne halfway to his mouth.

Stiles feels.. Sick.

Fed up. 

Everything seems futile, he feels, he feels- Trapped. He wants to scream, he wants to do nothing, he wants to feel but he's so scared of feeling.

He's so scared of this pain.

He pushes the food around on his plate, his appetite never surfacing for it to be lost. 

Stiles can't explain what it is that makes his insides pang. Like he can't breathe.

It's like he misses him, his father, but he's sat right in front of him. He's less than two feet away.

But Stiles feels so alone.

"I miss you," he says, and it's barely a whisper, it's barely there at all. But he means it, he means it so much and he wills with all his strength for his father to just understand. To wrap him up in a hug and just- Just help.

His dad stops chewing. He looks up at Stiles with a shifty eyes. His eye's look cautious but a small smile betrays his attempt at scorn.

"What did you do, Stiles?" He says, raising his eyebrows, like Stiles is five and there's crayons lodged in his car vents again.

He thinks Stiles has been up to something.

Something trivial, something fun and careless.

Something he can understand.

"Nothing, dad. I- nothing." He gives him a weak smile, hoping feverently for his fathers sake that it was enough to keep him satisfied. To keep him from the guilt.

He pushes away from the table, walking with little energy to his room.

There's a lump in his throat, and his eyes sting.

"I really fucking miss you, dad." He whispers to himself, shutting his door behind him and trying to keep the emotions at bay.

He doesn't do very well.

Suddenly he misses her again.

And it's so strong, the waves of nostalgia. His breath hitches and he slides down his wall, wrapping his arms around his knees.

His cheeks are damp and he can't stop the tears falling.

It seems so pointless, so pathetic.

But he just can't stop.

"Mom-I'm- I'm sorry," he cries, hands going white with the grip he holds on himself.

He puts his head in his knees and stays that way for a long time. Long enough for the tears to dry leaving only harsh gasping breathes in their place.

Shakily he gets up and crawls into bed.

He stares up at the ceiling.

He doesn't sleep for a long time.


	3. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, Stiles!"
> 
> Stiles closes his eyes and mentally prepares himself, he slings his bag over his shoulder and turns round, big, fucking fake grin on his face.

Stiles isn't depressed.

He eats.

He sleeps.

Hell, he even dreams.

His father loves him, he knows that. His mother had loved him.

He was happy. Back then.

Stiles isn't lacking. He has a laptop, a new phone, he has his own car. Food. Shelter.

So no. Technically Stiles isn't depressed. There was no reason for him to be.

He just gets sad sometimes.

There's no reason behind it, no justification. It's irrational.

Pathetic.

It's unexplainable. So Stiles will never try to explain.

"Hey, Stiles!"

Stiles closes his eyes and mentally prepares himself, he slings his bag over his shoulder and turns round, big, fucking fake grin on his face.

"Hey man!" He says with cheer. Scott jogs up to him, bracing his shoulder against the lockers.

"Dude, I feel like I haven't seen you in forever." Scott drags out the forever and groans at the end. He's blissfully unaware of how Stiles clenches and unclenches his fists.

"Yeah." He mutters. "Same."

Stiles doesn't remember exactly when it was he started feeling like talking to Scott was a chore. Something he never looked forward to.

Something to avoid.

Aprehension and anxiety make his throat thick and he can barely stand for more than five minutes in his friends presence. 

It feels.. Wrong. Talking to Scott feels so pretend. And it frustrates him so much. Makes him scared.

Denying that he was scared would be pointless and Stiles knows the fear is mostly the reason why he can barely look Scott in the eye.

_What if he hurts you._

_What if he doesn't want you anymore._

He's sick of it, so sick of the fear.

_What if you're not good enough._

Talking to anyone has become something he hates. It was sluggish, fake. Everybody just ignorantly going through the motions.

And he hated every second of it.

"Listen dude, there's this deer and Deaton said it was weird, like super wolfy mojo weird, and you and Derek have seriously got to come check it..."

Stiles zones out, his attention fixed on Scott.

Not what he was saying, but the person as a whole.

Scott McCall is his best friend. Brothers, in all but blood.

But Scott he- he doesn't care. He doesn't care about Stiles.

It's like the only thing they can talk about it is the supernatural and Allison.

And Stiles just can't anymore. With either of them.

The guilt whenever he comes across the word wolf chokes him, fuzzes his vision and makes him sweat.

Then, there's the jealousy.

And god, is Stiles jealous. Scott is his best friend. Stiles has always been there, hasn't he? Throughout every thing Stiles has been there for Scott, never wanting, never demanding anything. But Allison is just there and she just- She just took him away. Like it was so easy.

The worst part is that he knows it was so easy for Scott to leave him behind because he didn't want to stay.

Scott never wants to stay.

And that-

Hurts.

"....so please say you'll come?"

Scott is smiling at him. In his oblivious way. And it's like, suddenly, they're younger and all the crap with the Bite had never happened.

Because Scott is trying.

He's trying for him.

Stiles feels his drawn face crack in a smile before he knows it. A genuine, all be it small, one.

He pushes Scotts shoulder.

"Sure man."

Maybe, he tells himself, it'll get better. Maybe he won't have to feel like this anymore.

"Just like old times, partner." Scotts says with a crap attempt at a sourthern drawl.

And Stiles can't help himself, he laughs. Hope floods into him, lighting up everything.

For the first time in weeks, Stiles doesn't cut that night.


	4. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just sleep, Stiles,"says the pillow and Stiles smiles because the pillow is grumpy and that's just typical.

Stiles has this theory.

It's like this. Everybody in the whole world has a mind like a radio station. And every person runs on a certain frequency.

There's your FM's. The stereotypical teenagers in school. The people that shirk social responsibility and stick their heads in the sand, only ever accepting something if thousands before them have done so. The ones that don't go out of their way for anybody give themselves, their doting partner, their 2.5 kids and their fucking family dog.

These people come in varying degrees of idiocy, mostly dependant upon nuture. There are those who do their bit for the world, if only to make themselves look good. Those who's greatest excitement in live is their newest phone, or their team making the finals.

These people occupy the majority of society. The fit each and every expectation. Bend to every whim and rule. They don't get mad or passionate, because they choose to ignore. 

These people cower in the face of change and spit in that of originality.

FM's are the freaking worst.

Jackson's an FM.

On the flip side of this rusty coin of life, you get AM's. AM's are different. Unexplainable, spontaneous, beautiful, strong. AM's are your Nelson Mandela's, your Danny Boyles and your MLK Jr's. The small percentage of people that are capable of such a high level of empathetic understanind. The achievers. The leaders. The strong willed.

They see the world for what it is. Beautiful. Corrupted. Wondrous. Futile.

Collectively they care. And collectively they try to change it.

Tom Hardy. Elton John. Chris Martin.

Allisons an AM. Even if she doesnt know it.

Stiles knows he's not an FM. He could never not care.

But no way is he an AM. He's pathetic, talentless, unworthy. Undesirable at best.

He comes to the same conclusion. Every fucking time. And it fucking rips him to shreds.

Stiles doesn't belong.

He doesn't-theres no where for him. He doesn't belong. And it-he doesn't know what to do.

It's a cold finality that snakes around his mind, his entire being, seeping into every crevice of his damaged soul.

It's always there. This harsh, chill realisation that he can't relate.

He can't go through a day without it leaving him raw.

Talking to his father, he has become constantly aware of their differences. 

 He catalogues them as he's talking to Scott, adding alcohol to the harsh wound.

Right now, staring at Scott's strong confident gestures around the clinic, it's evident that Stiles could never, will never be like him. Not good enough.

He can't help the feeling. The self-hatred sinks into him slowly, weighing him down, making his eyes droop and his head fall.

Subconsciously Stiles pulls his sleeves down and wraps his arms around his waist, trying with all his might to make it go away, to hide from the pain.

He has to cut.

 He needs with such a strong intensity he lets out a shaky breath. He zones out, not registering when Scott and Deaton leave the room.

Stiles blinks at the empty room. He shudders.

Everything is always so cold.

 He slumps down the brick wall at his back, knowing he should compose himself but already lost to the roar of emotions.

 He sits. Heart beating fast in anticipation. Of nothing. Of the impending hours of nothing that always awaits him.

 He's so alone! All the fucking time, he hates it. Hates.

Hates.

His breathe hitches and he digs his nails into his palms, closing his eyes at the sting.

"Ice helps take your mind off it."

Stiles eyes fly open and he stifles a gasp as Derek looks down at him. His voice was soft, fond even. In contrast,  his mouth is set in a thin line and his gaze is so intense Stiles can feel his face heating up. 

He's holding out an ice pack like it personally offended him and despite himself Stiles face cracks in a smile as he takes the ice.

He doesn't say anything scared that if he opens his mouth his defense mechanisms will end up costing him his life.

Somehow, this doesn't feel like pity.

Derek seems to decide that Stiles is too incompotent and grabs the ice pack with a huff, placing it gruffly on Stiles neck before sitting next to him.

Stiles flinches at the temperature but forces himself to relax. To focus on the cool.

Stiles doesn't know how much time had passed in silence, with Derek sat stiffly beside him, his body radiating heat to battle the cold focus of the ice.

His eyes begin to droop. The cold is nice and Stiles can feel the tension easing out of him slowly. He doesn't mind that it's Derek, he doesn't have to pretend, he doesn't have to lie. 

 He can just sit in silence and it doesn't feel forced like it usually does.

He lets his head fall, already half asleep, and his cheek comes into contact with a warm firm pillow.

 He snuggles into it, mumbling a thanks when the pillow shifts to give him a better angle.

Stiles feels the pillow put an arm around his shoulders and woah, pillows don't have arms. He tries to force his eyes open but the pillow-hand tightens.

"Just sleep, Stiles,"says the pillow and Stiles smiles because the pillow is grumpy and thats just typical.

But he listens to it, inhaling once before he drifts off. The pillow, warm and comforting, simply holds him and Stiles falls to sleep fast feeling safe.


	5. In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Show me your arms." He says and the world stops still.
> 
> Stiles can't breathe. His heart crashes against his chest. 
> 
> He can't think and he needs to- he has to. His fathers eyes bore into him, a silent warning that he won't let this go.

He doesn't see Derek again. Not for awhile anyway.

It confused him and he didn't want to think about it. So he didn't. Stiles pushed it to the back of his mind and carried on with his life.

It was getting better. He hadn't cut in a week since the night in the clinic. Every time he wanted to he'd hold ice to his wrists or smash a plate. It helped. But it wasn't enough.

He still felt drained. Everything about him was always tired. Slowly, bit by bit, Stiles was disappearing and he couldn't claw himself back.

It scared him.

Scott and Allison are super happy. He's happy for them. He is.

He's just jealous. Of course he is. His closest friend, brothers in everything but blood, barely talks to him anymore, barely even looks at him in school. His best friend has found somebody that makes him happy, that can take away his pain.

Stiles isn't naive enough to say he'd feel better with a girlfriend, or hell, a boyfriend. But he knows it would be nice. To have someone you can trust, someone you can lean on just a little bit so it doesn't feel like your arms constantly shake with the effort of trying to hold your crumbling self.

But he's trying not to think like that anymore.

Negative energy. He read about it somewhere. It ruins us, churns our stomachs into an angry mess. He tries not to feel angry. But all thats left is guilt, a constant lump in his throat, a constant clutch on his heart. He'd take it over nothing.

His father is more subdued. It's only a matter of time before something happens, before he blows up. Before Stiles goes too far.

It's not like he wants to die. Of course he doesn't.

But he's thought about it. He's thought about how long it would take for his wrists to bleed out, he's thought about whether he could force himself underwater.

He's thought about killing himself at least once every day. But he's not depressed. He doesn't deserve to be.

He was contemplating the benefits of his death when it happened.

He's sitting at the kitchen table, hoodie up and hands clutched around his sleeves. He doesn't notice when his father walks in and just looks at him.

"Stiles." He says and it jolts him awake.

"Hey, dad."

"Can I.."

His dad is weirdly quiet, like he's confused, apprehensive. Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him and tries to smile.

By the pained expression on his fathers face, it doesn't come out well.

"Show me your arms." He says and the world stops still.

Stiles can't breathe. His heart crashes against his chest. He can't think and he needs to- he has to. His fathers eyes bore into him, a silent warning that he won't let this go.

"Would-Would you look at the time! I have to go skype Scott!" It's difficult to talk, he can barely manage it. His skin feels prickly and he can't look at his dad. He fumbles out his seat and tries to quickly get out of the kitchen.

He fathers hand reaches out and grasps his arm. "Son." He says, and his eyes look pained.

"Let me go." Stiles manages, voice quiet, eyes to the ground.

He wouldn't care. He doesn't care anymore.

A painful moment of tense silence passes between them before his dad lets him go. Stiles knows this won't be the end of it, he knows something's going to happen but he focuses on getting away, on calming his heart because it's threatening to jump out his chest.

He's terrified. And it makes him want to-

No.

He runs into his room and slams the door shut behind him. He grasps his knees to try and stop his legs from shaking. He needs to-

No.

His fingers shake as they reach into his drawer. He doesn't understand! Every part of him is screaming no, every part of him doesn't want this. But he has too, he can't deal- He can't breathe if he doesn't.

He cuts his fingers as he tries to line the blade properly. It doesn't matter. Everything will feel better soon.

He slumps against his door and pushes in. It's euphoric, it clears his mind instantly. He breathes. He feels.

"I hoped I wasn't right."

Stiles' lazy gaze moves towards the window, towards Derek. The blade slips from his hands and he gasps. He shoves down his sleeves but it's too late. He probably saw everything. Probably smelt it.

"What.. Why are you in my room?" He whispers, he doesn't have the energy to get as terrified anymore. It hurt.

"Push your sleeves up." Derek says, throwing his jacket onto a chair and stalking towards him. "Now."

He doesn't know why he listens. He feels small. But he trusts. He has no idea why but he trusts Derek.

Derek takes his hand and leads him to the bed. His hands are gentle as they touch Stiles arm, locating every scar, every hatred.

"Have you been cleaning them?" He asks softly. Stiles is thrown. Why was he not shouting? Why was he not freaking out? Why the fuck wasn't he disappointed?

It takes him a while to find his voice but eventually he does. "Not really." He still can't look Derek in the eye.

"Idiot." The man breathes and somehow Stiles knows not to take to heart.

Derek moves quietly to the bathroom and comes back with alcohol wipes and antiseptic.

"What are you doing?" Stiles stares at him with wide eyes, fighting the urge to pull his hands out of the mans grip and hide.

"You won't want these to scar," is all Derek says in answer.

Stiles doesn't fight him anymore after that.

"Why haven't you told anyone?" Derek asks, voice a steady tone. He doesn't specify what, the cutting, the pain, the emotions.

Stiles hisses when he dabs the wipe on the most recent cut and Derek rubs his thumb across his hand in apology. His veins turn black and Stiles doesn't feel pain anymore.

"I can't- They'd- They wouldn't understand." Not like you.  
"Okay."

Stiles finds himself looking at Derek as he works. His eyebrows drawn in concentration, his eye's focused. His mouth is one tight line but there's no other sign of tenseness in his body, shoulder's loose.

Derek's hands are soft as they slowly work the antiseptic on his arms. He closes his eyes and suddenly he's feeling bliss. Bliss. It doesn't hurt anymore, inside of him. He doesn't have to hide. He doesn't have to be alone.

"I think, maybe, you should tell someone." Derek says in that calm voice again. "If you want you can tell me." Stiles eyes find his face in shock, widening slightly and mouth gaping.

"I- I don't want to."

Derek's finished. He puts the cream and wipes on Stiles bedside table and finally looks at him. Stiles waist for the pity, he waits for the anger. He waits for the disappointment.

And instead gets a smile.

"Stubborn." Derek says, smirking, pulling one right out of Stiles. The first in weeks that didn't feel foreign on his face.

"Deal with it." He whispers right back, not knowing where he got the nerve to joke, not knowing where the hands around his neck, or the cat with his tongue had disappeared to.

Derek chuckles slightly and it's so out of character that Stiles finds himself scouring the man for any sign of pretence. Derek's either a really fucking amazing actor, or he's been hiding a part of himself for a long time. Is this the real Derek? The one that would smile and joke, silently take your pain. Understand.

Derek's hand slips into to Stiles' and entwines their fingers. The black veins make a reappearance and Stiles looks at Derek in question.

"You should sleep." He says as Stiles is already leaning forward onto Derek's shoulder in exhaustion.

"Thank you." He whispers just before he falls.


End file.
